


как розу любит соловей (like a nightingale loves the rose)

by your_taxidermy



Category: Rocky Series (Movies)
Genre: 80s montage or get out, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Russians being Russians, Soviet Union, Suggestive Themes, Touch-Starved, USSR, boxers in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 10:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_taxidermy/pseuds/your_taxidermy
Summary: He won violently, bloodily, and brutally.





	как розу любит соловей (like a nightingale loves the rose)

**Author's Note:**

> A personal favorite drabble with my dumbass OC and the Siberian Bull  
A small note: Ivan's English is very short and very choppy, these are not errors on my part, just close attention to character detail :) I consider my new Rocky fic obsession as a side project just to relax and not have to worry about writing the greatest fics of all time, these are all fun and games. 
> 
> I don't feel like translating this Russian again but let's do it anyway 
> 
> *Kapitan - Captain  
**Krasavitch - handsome  
***Moya kukolka - my little doll  
****"Byt' nezhnym - be gentle  
*****Eto Kapitan dlya vas - that is captain to you  
******Mysh - mouse

Ivan thought he would never see the day where he lost a fight. He was almost convinced he was going to lose against his opponent, he suffered repeated punches to his chiseled jaw and defined cheekbones. He won violently, bloodily, and brutally. The enemy fell hard, Goliath had slain everyone in his Valley of Elah. _I can not be defeated. _His hubris would be his death, wild, feral arrogance kills a man over time. At the end of his fight, a spat a mouthful of water onto the ground, blood was furiously pumping from his cheek, his sweat burned the raw spots on his face. He ignored the pain like a true warrior. He held his gloved hands into the air, lights flashing repeatedly in front of his eyes, crowds cheering, interviewers climbing into the ring to question the soldier. He turned away from them, he was in no mood to be pestered by nosy interviewers. 

As he left the ring, Misha had locked eyes with him, watching him tear off his boxing gloves with little effort. His snarl had not disappeared, it always found its way back in everything he did. No matter what he was doing, he held so much power under his flesh, his blood boiled, his bones were made of cast iron, and his mind was sharper than a tack. He was so much more than the average boxy, all muscle, no brains. But he knew you needed both to win a fight without luck. He stepped down the last step and leaned his hot, exhausted body against the cold walls of the locker room. He had shunned his minions away, expressing he needed to be alone for the time being. The room was silent, cold, empty. He craved that lonely sound of emptiness. 

Slowly, Misha crept into the locker room. "Ivan," she called him. "You fought well." 

Ivan lets out a breathy chuckle, his flawless, ivory teeth peeking out from under his swollen lips. The warrior was not made to give up, he was crafted by God himself to win, to berate, to conquer. Ivan was a king in his own right, a ferocious captain, a mighty fighter, a man who could not allow himself to lose. His eyes were tired, he could barely keep them open to look at the woman who stood against the door. "You could have killed him," Misha continued, walking closer to the man. Her boots clicked against the tile floors, echoing in his ears. The sound drove him crazy, if he could tear off those heels he would with great joy. "Stand still," he breathed, looking down at her heeled boots, his head still resting on the locker. "You could have killed him and you didn't. You said you were going to, Ivan. Why didn't you?" Misha's red-painted lips curled into a smile, her long, defined legs taking long strides over to him, being mindful of her clicking boots. "Have you gone soft, Ivan? I tease you, of course, but they say women weaken the legs," she laughed softly, resting her fingertips on his muscled shoulder. "I am not weak, Misha. I beat all men, is that weakness to you?" His eyes were still shut. "I told you, Ivan, I tease you. I just tease you." 

"Is it a good idea to tease your captain, Volkova?" he asked lowly, spitting his blood into the trashcan. Misha chuckled deeply. "I suppose not _Kapitan." _

Ivan lifted his head from the locker and looked longingly into her eyes. "Is it not amusing to see people call you a sportsman and not the soldier you are? They neglect your status, the status you worked so hard to earn? They do not want to admit your strength, Ivan."

Ivan shakes his head. "I do not need media approval. I know I can not be defeated, soon Apollo Creed will know this." His voice was dry, monotonous. Misha grabbed a cold washcloth from the mini-fridge and dabbed his cheeks, squeezing the cold water down his skin. "Don't worry about that, Kapitan. Worry about now, the men and women you train." Misha ran it down his face and neck, the ice-cold water making his pale skin shiver. Ivan placed his hand on hers, his sore, tired fingers trailing down her hand to her clothed forearm. "Rest now, Ivan. Have you forgotten about your recruits tomorrow?" Misha ran the cloth down his toned shoulders, the sweat dried to his milky flesh. "I know, I have not forgotten..." 

Misha took a step closer to him, running her leather-clad fingers through his blonde hair slightly damp with sweat. "You did well, Ivan. I am proud of you, _krasavitch_. So very proud of you," she watched him lean into her forearm, his cheek blood staining her olive green button-down top. The brass links on her cuff were cold against his skin. He leaned into her, gently, slowly. His cheekbones brushed against her sleeve and he let out a relaxed sigh. She savored the moment between them, knowing in a flash he would grow back his hard exoskeleton. Her gloved fingers ran down his cheek and when she touched his jawline, his monstrous hands wrapped around her wrist. She raised how eyebrows slowly, almost offended he would dare make such a move. They stared into each other's eyes before Ivan pulled Misha into him, resting her knee on the hard seat under him. He still towered above her even when he sat down. Misha's wrists twisted in his hands, playfully escaping his grasp. 

But Ivan did not let go. "You resist, yet..." he trailed off, bringing his other hand to her hair. "Your eyes tell... different story," he said slowly, finding peace in her bottomless eyes. Misha's fingers reached down to touch his strong, masculine hands. His face was glistening with the icy cold droplets running down his skin, the dim lights of the locker room only bringing out his blue hues. The silence between them was more powerful than any words they could say to each other. "Ivan," Misha whispered. 

_"Moya kukolka." _Ivan exhaled deeply, pulling her by the writs. She steadied herself on his shoulders and kisses his lips gently, tenderly. "_Byt' nezhnym," _Misha hisses as he bit down on her bottom lip, his teeth leaving indents on her inner lip. Her lips curled into the same snarl he gave while he threw brutal punches at his bag. _Be gentle, she said. _

_S_he kissed him back passionately, the grip around her wrists tightening with each kiss he gave her. He pulled her wrists down hard, pinning her hands flat against the seat. Even when his tendons, down to his bones, ached, he still found the strength to hold down his woman. "Ivan, you-" he cut her off with a mouthy kiss, consuming her in seemingly one bite. 

There was a knock at the lockerroom door and Misha tried to pull away, but the Siberian Bull pulled her back to him. "Wait one minute," Ivan called to the knocker. 

"Ivan, do not get in trouble," Misha breathed into his mouth, containing the gasps he lulled from her throat. "Eto Kapitan dlya vas," he groaned through a kiss, sliding his other hand up her back, his sore fingertips gliding up her back. Another knock. Ivan pushed Misha away, his strength getting the best of him. She jabbed her fist in his bicep. "Did mosquito bite me?" he chuckled to himself as he went to open the door. He stood imposingly in the frame as his manager handed him a handful of papers to sign. He took them without a word. Misha fixed her button-up and watched as Ivan's eyes scanned over the papers and posters of himself people wanted to be signed. How annoying... 

"Mysh, go wait with Vladimir, I will be with you when possible, yes?" He sorted through the papers and barely raised his head to look back at her. "Of course, Kapitan." She walked beside him and bowed her head in respect, her stubborn strands of hair falling out of place. 

Goliath had divided, conquered, slaughtered, and Ivan Drago planned to do the same. Allow his name to be broadcasted world wild, his face turned into murals in the inner American cities. 

People cheered his name and waved the Red Flag in his honor and Misha had never been more proud to serve under his order in both the ring and military. He was a symbol of pride, nationalism, a great member of Soviet society. 

Misha looked behind her, her matted lipstick still st in place. Her eyes softened at his lockerroom, a poster of him plastered on for all to see. Misha felt like a fool for loving him like a nightingale loves the rose. His hard shell only made her want to dig under and find the soft cotton. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you think I DID NOT have No Easy Way Out on loop when I wrote this, you owe me 20 bucks.


End file.
